


The Monica To My Chandler

by eeyore9990



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Realization, assholes in love, based on a friends episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 08:02:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4911721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their lives have nothing in common with the 90's romcom, not really, but there's just no denying that, paleontology aside, Jackson is probably Ross.</p><p>That being said, if Friends had included a little more bloodshed and violence, their lives would probably look a whole lot like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Monica To My Chandler

**Author's Note:**

> I really, really needed some assholes realizing they're in love today. 
> 
> So, yeah. That's my excuse for writing this _again_.

There was something different. 

Stiles shifted on the sofa, feeling his ass settling into the cushion _just like normal_. So it wasn't that. 

But something was... it was different. It was annoyingly different in that universal asshole way that tickled at the back of his brain without actually _presenting itself_. Goddammit. 

Stiles glared around the apartment, waiting for it. It was going to come to him. He was going to figure this out. 

"Did you move the furniture?" he asked, fingers clenched around the bottle of beer in his hand. Squinting down at it, he blew out a sharp breath, because no, it wasn't that. Same old Bud Light Lime that Derek always had in his fridge. 

Shifting the bottle to his other hand, he began to drum his fingers on the arm of the sofa as he turned to Derek, eyebrows raised. 

"Oh," Derek said, his eyebrows quirking in surprise even if the emotion didn't actually filter down to his voice. "That was a serious question." Rolling his eyes, Derek shook his head and said in a patronizing tone, "No, Stiles, I didn't move the furniture." 

"Not even a little? You didn't maybe bump into an end table or something in the middle of the night?" 

"I don't know," Derek said, sassy eyebrows swooping dramatically over his eyes. "Did you come over in the middle of the night and bump into my furniture? Because of the two of us..." He let his voice trail off meaningfully. 

"Yeah, yeah, asshole," Stiles muttered, dragging his finger along the side of his bottle to gather up enough condensation to flick on Derek, who just pawed it off his neck with a grimace. "No, seriously though. Something's different. What is it?" 

At that, Derek looked around too, scratching idly at the scruff along his jaw as he did so. Finally, he shrugged. "Looks the same to me." 

Huffing, Stiles flailed his hands, his gesture encompassing the entire room. "Aren't you supposed to have super senses? If even _I_ can tell something is different, why can't you?" 

Muttering under his breath about _figuring it out himself_ while Derek just turned back to the Friends episode he was Netflixing, Stiles pulled his phone from his pocket and opened up a search box in Chrome. Typing in ' _What is different?_ ' netted him several dozen pages of search results for various dictionary definitions of the words different and difference. 

Thanks, Google. That's so helpful. 

' _What is different about today?_ ' was even less illuminating, and he refused to ask Google what was different about Derek Hale's apartment for fear that he'd get results about the fire. He did not need that kind of angst right now. 

Several more minutes of fingers drumming against the sofa arm didn't shed any light on the subject, so Stiles pushed to his feet, trying for a different perspective. He paced around the living room, then wandered into the kitchen, setting his beer down before absentmindedly returning to the living room, toying with his phone. 

A little snort of humor made him zero in on Derek, whose lips were relaxed in a soft smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners at whatever was happening on the television. Focusing on that, Stiles watched Chandler throwing a fit about something. It wasn't until a few more minutes of the episode passed that he realized it was the one with the turkey. 

Chuckling, he lowered himself back to his seat, stealing the remote long enough to bump up the volume slightly so he could hear better. "I never understood the whole Ross and Rachel draw," he muttered. 

"Ross is a self-important douche," Derek muttered, eyes still fixed to the screen. 

"Invisible fist bump of agreement." 

They both made a soft explosion sound as Monica knocked on Chandler's door, turkey seated on her shoulders. 

Stiles sighed, the sound bittersweet to his own ears. "They're so Scott and Kira." 

Derek shook his head, eyes flickering to Stiles and away. "Nah. If Scott's anyone, he's Joey." 

"Huh. Yeah, I mean, Kira is really more Phoebe than anyone, but even then she's not _really_..." 

"If anyone's Chandler, it's you," Derek said, drawing Stiles' attention. 

Lips parting in amazement, Stiles suddenly choked up. "Man, that's... that's probably the nicest thing you've ever said to me." 

"Shh, this is the best part." Derek absently raised his hand, fingers smooshing into Stiles' mouth as Monica started dancing on screen, making Chandler laugh and admit that he loved her. 

And it was... suddenly clear. So amazingly, astonishingly clear that Stiles felt like a goddamn idiot. 

"Holy shit," he mumbled against the press of Derek's fingers, eyes wide and locked on the television as his entire world rearranged itself in the blink of an eye. 

"Hmm?" Derek finally dropped his hand, dragging his attention from the television as the episode ended and Netflix popped up a box to ask if he was still watching. 

When Derek's gaze met his, Stiles looked at him, _really_ looked at him, taking in the features that were so familiar and yet so new. As he stared, his heart started racing, his breathing growing ragged and thin in the precursor to a panic attack. 

Because... because after seven years of friendship, after too many near-death experiences to count, after peace and inside jokes and snark and sass and knowing which calendar days he needed to just be a quiet presence at Derek's side, Stiles... 

He finally understood. 

He knew what was different. 

"Stiles?" Derek lunged forward on the sofa, gripping Stiles' shoulders tight, his face creased with worry. "What's wrong? Are you okay? What's--" 

"You're my Monica," Stiles whisper-wheezed, leaning forward to face plant in Derek's chest. "Holy shit," he gasped. "You're my Monica _and I had no idea._ " 

And honestly, it shouldn't have been so shocking to find himself on the floor after that, breath knocked from his lungs from the impact as he stared up into Derek's flat, unamused face. In terms of stopping his panic attack in its tracks, it was a highly effective manuever. 

"Your _Monica_? What the hell does that even mean, Stiles?" 

Sitting up slowly, Stiles looked around again at the apartment, seeing it in a new light. He didn't live here, but he knew every inch of it. He knew it because for all that it wasn't his, it was the place he thought of as home. The sofa had a perfect impression of his butt, Derek stocked his favorite snacks... hell, he probably spent more time here than he did at his own place. 

Leaving at night had always been wrenching, and now he finally knew why. 

"This... you. I--" Stiles scrubbed his palm over the back of his head, finally meeting Derek's narrow-eyed stare again. "I'm in love with you," he said, and it came out accusing, like his whole little life-altering revelation was somehow Derek's fault. 

Which, to be fair, it totally kinda was. 

Derek flinched backward, eyes going wide and a little panicked. "What. _What?!_ That's. No you're not." 

Jabbing a finger at Derek, he hissed, "Really fucking am, dude." 

Derek's eyes flashed blue momentarily as his mouth opened, then closed without a sound coming out. 

"Oh, trust me, I'm just as shocked as you are," Stiles said, picking himself up off the floor and sinking into his spot on the sofa. _His_ spot. 

"We've never even..." Derek's voice sounded choked, a little harsh. 

Stiles snorted, reaching for his beer only to remember he'd left it in the kitchen. Dammit. 

"Stiles, how do you... What? How." 

Looking over, Stiles saw Derek sitting with his head in his hands, fingers grasping at his own hair as he stared off into space, still shocky-pale. Slowly Derek straighted from his slouch, turning his head until he was staring directly into Stiles' eyes, his own bright and fierce-looking. 

"You _asshole_ ," he whispered. Then, before Stiles could panic again, Derek pounced, hands cupping Stiles' face as he mashed their mouths together in a move far too uncoordinated to properly be termed a kiss. Pulling back, he growled, "I was doing just fine, you little shit." 

Stiles nodded, straining to get closer, wanting Derek's mouth back on his again for a second chance at that all important first kiss. "I know, I know." Because it hadn't exactly been a welcome revelation for _him_ , either. 

Seven _years_. God, he felt like an idiot. 

"We could've--" Derek hissed, teeth scraping over Stiles' jaw. 

Stiles' "yeah" got tangled up on Derek's tongue. 

But that was okay. They had the _next_ seven years to make up for it.


End file.
